south of the loop

This is the tribute I wrote for Leon, with much thanks to jaq and Harriett for the last-minute editing!

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Leon taught us gentleness and generosity, humor and love. He animated our lives with dry wit and open arms, with spontaneity and thoughtfulness. If we are heartbroken now, it is because Leon is so deeply rooted in our hearts and in our lives, and because his life has brought so much happiness to ours.

Leon found inspiration and joy in his work as the public programs manager at the Eiteljorg Museum, where he worked for the past eight years, and at The Children’s Museum, where he worked the decade prior. His affinity for working with people came naturally, and those who found themselves on the edges of society—children, minorities, even new staff members—received immediate warmth and friendship from Leon. He treated people with admirable equality, staying true to his own open nature, no matter who they were or how they treated him. He was more than a coworker or a manager of public programs: his genuine affection for the artists he invited to the museum bore rich fruit in the lasting friendships he formed and in his own creative endeavors. He became an artist in his own right, taking up basketry with exquisite results. He was a determined activist for African-Americans and other Americans of color, using his work at the Eiteljorg Museum and Indiana Black Expo to help people see themselves in the American West, from the earliest times to the present. He cared about bringing the museum’s mission to life, and took pride in events like Winter Market, which he nurtured from a simple idea into a great success.

Unlike many of us who hesitate to reach out and touch others, Leon did so literally and figuratively, time and time again. He provided support and encouragement for several families who had relocated to Indianapolis after Hurricane Katrina. He was an active and faithful board member of Gleaner’s Food Bank for seven years, tirelessly leading their strategic planning efforts and pouring his heart and passion into their mission. Leon wrestled with the challenges of feeding the hungry, and he encouraged others to do the same. When the Eiteljorg offered free admission in lieu of a food donation to Gleaner’s last December, Leon kept staff apprised of not only how much food had been collected, but also how many bowls it would fill. He was so happy to be able to spread the passion from his volunteer work to his day job, and proud that Eiteljorg visitors contributed so heartily.

Leon saw no boundaries, only opportunities, and he found a singular place in our lives that straddled the personal and professional. He incorporated Gleaner’s mission into the Eiteljorg; he brought compassion and understanding to Gleaner’s; he infused his own hopes for African-Americans into everything he did. His wonderful dry humor permeated our lives, keeping us humble and humane, and he unstintingly expressed sincere affection for those around him, always there to squeeze a colleague’s shoulder or offer a hug. His love for his partner, Kevin, was quiet, strong, palpable. He spoke fondly and proudly of his brother, Jerry, and his sister, April. He was always happy for an excuse to brag about his niece and nephew, Tessa and Tristan, whose pictures he kept in his office. The mothers of young boys collapsed with laughter at the recountings of his own favorite childhood stories, as he told how he and Jerry escaped punishment after setting the vacuum cleaner on fire—who would have thought that sweeping up hot embers from the fireplace could have such negative consequences?

Leon didn’t hesitate to bring swift perspective to a situation, often saying, “Aah, get over it!” But we won’t get over him: it is simply not possible to find somebody who hugs so well, smiles so broadly, or cares so deeply. Leon wrote in an email many years ago, “I’m not sure what the future holds for Leon Jett. I do know that I carry with me lessons about families, children, life, learning, and many personal discoveries into my next chapter. I am richer for it.” And we are richer for him.

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Five miles this morning! No snow this time, but plenty of wind and cold. jaq tells me I’m not allowed to complain about wind—”I mean, it’s called the Windy City. It’s in the advertising,” she says—but I’m going to anyway. Standing and waiting for the train this morning, my lower lip was so numbed by the cold wind that I felt like there was an ice pack applied to it. I kept touching it to see if it was still there, and I kept expecting to find a fat lip, because when else do you put an ice pack on your lips?

Of course, once you get going, you warm up (a little), and the run felt pretty good. We ran along the lake path from about North Ave to Belmont and then back; it’s a little more scenic and a lot less fumy than running on the south side, and it’s nice change of pace. There are lots of runners on the path, many with happy pooches alongside them. I’m actually going to move up to the next training group, because the one I’m currently in is too slow for me. And the fact that I just typed out those words, that other people are actually slower than I am, is hard to believe. Could I actually be giving up my long-held position as caboose?

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current book: Engrossed in High Tide in Tucson, but I think it may get a post of its own. It is beautiful but overwrought, and yet I can’t put it down.

current music: I tried to listen to my running mix on my iPod this morning, but my earbuds are not very well suited to running. So I caught snatches of songs here and there. Otherwise, I’m still on this CocoRosie kick, weird as they are.

current socks: Red Smartwools with a white snowflakey kind of pattern. It’s chilly out there!

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Disbelief. It doesn’t seem possible to even move beyond that. My friend and former colleague Leon passed away the day after Valentine’s Day, and I don’t think I’ll ever really believe it. I am grateful to have visited him while he was in the hospital, even though I think I’ll always be haunted by the memory of him lying there,  intubated and hooked up to God knows how many other machines, unable to do any more than open his eyes or furrow his brow.

I was asked to write the obituary for him—I was so touched and so honored and so terrified. I wrote an obituary for the newspaper and also a tribute that will be read at his memorial service next week.  So for the past few days, I’ve just been shouldering through, focusing on the obituaries but not the event that necessitated them, and today, after receiving a few pictures of Leon, was the first time I mouthed the words, “he’s gone.” My perspective is different now that I no longer work at the museum with him, so I don’t have to deal with the pangs of emptiness that are borne of the expectation of seeing Leon at his desk or walking down the halls.  I’ve never dealt with death particularly well, and I’m usually that person at funerals, the one who is choking with tears. (See: my paternal grandmother’s funeral. I was 12, and one of my aunts had to coax me out of the restroom at the funeral home, because I was doubled over on a chair, blotchy-faced and inconsolable. I have learned only a little grace and maturity since then, I’m afraid). Maybe being three hours away and at a different job will allow me to perpetually ignore it, or maybe it will string my disbelief out even longer. I don’t know. I suspect that everything will hit me at the memorial service next week, which is, I suppose, why we have them. I’ll be there, box of Kleenex in hand.

Filed under: life in general, writing by admin2
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I went for my first Mini training run yesterday—four miles in the snow!

The Mini—which is a half-marathon, and I take great issue with the word “mini” being used in association with “13.1 miles”—is in early May in Indianapolis as part of the Indy 500 festivities. I ran it in 2005 and had a blast, so I’m pretty excited about running it again. Nevertheless, there’s definitely a fear and intimidation factor, especially on that first training run. I haven’t run at all in at least three or four weeks because the cold has been too much for me, so yesterday morning I felt as much anxiety as I did excitement.

Four miles is a long first run, but we kept a slow, steady pace, and the snow on the ground was actually a great shock-absorber, crunching in time with our pace. We ran along the lake path on the north side of the city, and everything was bright, bright, white. We passed a guy with a large stroller with pugs stacked two high inside of it. He had a third pug with him, shivering a bit on the ground, and who probably joined the Jenga stack after he took care of his business. We passed an impromptu dog park, with a dozen or more dogs sprinting in circles in the snow, plowing it with their noses, happily playing in the white shit.

I felt pretty good after the run, and even a little bit badass. I mean, four miles? At 7:30 in the morning? In the snow? That’s pretty awesome. And I’m glad it went well, because now I know I can do it again and can really look forward to the rest of the training runs.

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current book: I’m still catching up on magazines. Will hopefully start High Tide in Tucson tomorrow.

current music: I’ve been listening to CocoRosie’s La maison de mon rêve. They are so weird, but I kind of love them.

current socks: Red with horseshoes.

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I’ve never been much for Valentine’s Day. It’s always seemed really contrived, and even when you’re dating someone, there are way better holidays to celebrate. (Half-birthdays, for instance). I used to wear all black or gray on V-Day, probably spawned by the bitterness and resentment I harbored from my days in an all-girls high school in Dallas, where large banquet tables were set up in the main lobby to collect the seemingly hundreds of bouquets that arrived approximately every ten seconds (I was never one of the recipients). I’m no longer actively anti-Valentine’s Day, it just sort of registers a big, pink, beflowered “meh.” Except, of course, when it comes to socks. And, yes, this post really is just a lame excuse to tell you about the socks I’m wearing today. The only other thing I can even think about blogging is this stupid winter weather. The cold and snow have frozen my mind, it seems.

Not only is it still really cold and getting colder, there is now nearly a foot of snow on the ground. (It doesn’t seem like quite that much here, but apparently Midway Airport, which is pretty close by, measured 9.7″). My mom refers to snow as “the white shit,” and rightly so. In Hyde Park, nothing south of the Midway has been touched by salt or plow or shovel. So I sludge and slosh up to my shins through slippery sidewalks and dirty gray snowdrifts. I can’t tell where the sidewalks are, but I can’t walk on the streets because there’s barely enough room for the cars as it is.

What have I learned from all of this, aside from the fact that I have a very bad attitude about winter? Next February, I will be planning a vacation. To Tucson, perhaps, or to Southern California. Anywhere there is sunshine, low wind, and absolutely no white shit.

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current book: Having finished the New Yorker, I got caught up in the latest Atlantic, and so have yet to start High Tide in Tucson.

current music: I spent last weekend trying to share the love that is “White and Nerdy” and Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So’s.

current socks: Are you ready for these? Are you sure? Pink crew socks with red toes and heels. Sailor Jerry-style swallows and hearts. The ribbon carried by the swallows says, “Je t’aime.” The best part (or most obnoxious, depending on your perspective)? Plush red hearts attached to the back of the heel. Man, I wish my camera was working.

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Forgive me for using my blog as a platform for airing my weather grievances, especially because so many of you have already put up with so much of my complaining. I know I can’t control the weather. But that doesn’t keep me from hating it:

- The temperatures remained mostly in the single digits today. Which is downright balmy compared to the negative temperatures of last week, but still about 50 degrees cooler than my thin Texan blood can reasonably handle.

- Probably most of you have already received numerous personal emails to this effect, but for those of you who haven’t: I spend EIGHTY FUCKING MINUTES every day outside. Did I mention my thin Texan blood? There’s very little I can do about the 80 minutes; it’s just part of my commute and that’s the way it is. I try to look at it as good exercise and fresh air and vitamin D and all that, but it’s very difficult to remain positive when you can no longer feel your face, except for the steady stream of snot and tears brought on by the frigid wind. I take some solace in the fact that at least nobody notices what I mess I am, since their faces are covered with scarves and face masks, too.

- In what I assume is karmic retribution for all of my bitching, I took quite a spill on the bus today. I missed the Metra by about 60 seconds, so I walked another half-block to catch the 6 bus. As I walked down the center aisle of the bus, I slipped in icy water just as the driver gunned it. I fell flat on my back and rammed the back of my head against a metal pole. I’m fine save a headache and a sore left elbow, but I had to be pretty much peeled off the floor by a very nice woman sitting nearby.

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current book: Should finish Goodbye, Columbus any minute now. Some stories were great, some okay. Up next, once I finish this week’s New Yorker: Barbara Kingsolver’s High Tide in Tucson. which I’m pretty excited about. We read an excerpt from it in a writing class I took a year ago, and I really enjoyed it.

current music: The Black Heart Procession’s Tropics del Amore, various Isabella Antenna tunes, The Elected’s Sun, Sun, Sun, and, of course, Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So’s, which I’ve yet to tire of.

current socks: Brown, green, and blue fuzzy argyles.

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My roommate is a second-year Ph.D. student in the Cinema/Media Studies Department. She’s also very interested in gender issues, and is currently working on a project about intersex people. She’s interviewed several intersex people (commonly known as hermaphrodites; I think “intersex” is the preferred term or the self-designation). Now, she and a colleague are putting together a short stop-motion film. I’m not entirely sure how the interviews and research will fit into this film. All I know is that there is now a hot pink clay penis in my refrigerator.

[Note: My digital camera isn't working, so the best we could do was get a still from the movie of Roommate's friend making the penis. If I can figure out how to fix my camera, I will snap a picture of the penis inside the fridge.]

* * *

current book: Nearly done with Goodbye, Columbus. Apparently this was Roth’s attempt at a novel while a grad student at the U of C. Sort of makes my master’s thesis look a bit paler…

current music: Can’t stop listening to Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So’s. Also, no matter what I do, I cannot get ‘Weird Al’ Yankovic’s “White and Nerdy” out of my head. That song is a serious earworm.

current socks: Smartwools with polypropylene liners underneath them and lined boots above them. And still my toes are cold. I have never been cold like this before. Not when I lived in Indianapolis, not when I lived in Massachusetts. I am seriously considering moving to the desert. Give me 100+ temperatures any day.

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I always loved having a summer birthday. Not only is August 3 always hot and sunny, I never once had to attend school on my birthday. I felt sorry for all those poor kids who had to do homework and take tests on their birthdays—and I liked school. But birthdays should be an opportunity to have fun and set your own agenda. Sleep in, shop, eat, get a massage, hang out with friends and family. Even as an adult, I still feel this same sense of entitlement, and I do my darnedest to request my birthday off from work.

I owe (blame?) this feeling of entitlement to Mrs. W., my second grade teacher. Instead of lumping all the summer birthdays together, those of us born between the sunny days of June and the dog days of August had our classroom celebrations on our half-birthdays. For some reason this really caught on in my family, and we’ve acknowledged half-birthdays ever since—this year’s half-birthday card from my mom arrived two days ago. And why not? It’s a fun excuse to send a second birthday card to someone. I am passing the torch to my nephew, whose half-birthday is exactly two weeks after mine. Last year I got him a couple very cool board books from the Frank Lloyd Wright Robie House. Not sure yet what’s in store for him this year, when he turns a year and a half. But I hope that when he is school-aged, he’ll cheerfully demand to have his birthday celebrated on February 17 instead of lumped into a “summer birthday celebration.”

I celebrated my half-birthday this year by trying to stay warm. It is currently 2 degrees outside with a wind chill of -14. I ran a couple errands this morning and arrived back home with pink, ice-cold skin and my face covered in tears and snot. My people don’t do cold weather. And thank God my real birthday is in August—I’m not sure I’d go out to celebrate in this subzero bullshit.

* * *

current book: Just finished the title story in Philip Roth’s Goodbye, Columbus, which I really enjoyed. The problem is that I can’t figure out exactly why I enjoyed it. I can hear Advisor’s voice asking me, “What about the writing is good? You need to figure that out.” I had this same problem with Michel Houellebecq’s The Elementary Particles—its brilliance is masked by such ordinariness, and I had a tough time figuring out why it was so good. Perhaps it will become clearer the further I get into Roth.

current music: Los Super 7’s Heard It on the X and Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So’s The Dust of Retreat.

current socks: Multi-colored stripeys.

Filed under: holidays, life in general by admin2
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Those of you who know me personally know that I’m not that crazy about kids. It’s not so much that I dislike them as I just don’t know what to do with them. They are foreign, alien things. They make me uncomfortable. And people expect (because I’m a woman?) that I’ll have some maternal instinct, or at least have something to say to the little crumbsnatcher they’ve handed me (because I’m supposed to like to hold kids?).

I still feel uncomfortable around 99.99% of kids, but that 0.01%? He’s pretty stinkin’ cute. And now he walks! I don’t know anything about toddlers, but he looks like he’s pretty steady for just having picked this skill up a day or so ago. My theory is that he’s been walking—secretly, sneakily—for a little bit longer than 48 hours. He’s kind of a stinker like that.

And even if you feel the way I do about kids and have no intention of watching the video, you should read the post anyway: his mamma compares her son’s first steps to her first time smoking pot.

Congrats, Emmit! I can’t wait to see you toddle in person.

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current book: Just started Philip Roth’s Goodbye, Columbus. Between this and The Division Street Princess, I’m going to be able to pepper my conversation with Yiddish expressions!

current music: I can’t get Lady Sovereign’s “Love Me or Hate Me” out of my head. But I just purchased a used copy of Los Super 7’s Heard It On the X, and it looks amazing.

current socks: Polka-dots. Of course.

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